Bus Stop

Were i to have sat there two minutes prior

i would not have met you

and i wouldn’t have been left brokenhearted

on the back of the 192.

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Motorway Poem

I was under no illusions as we escaped the city

Watching the night and lost in the wisps of live music.

I thought of the Jetstream of the 60’s dream

A concrete moment in 1967 that cracked by December

When flats grew cold and the hippies froze

Then the dream deferred leapt into the sordid 90’s

When cockroach parliamentarians were as drunk as Withnail

And I saw the final remnants of peace and love in

The cocaine afterglow of cool Britannia

With flags plastered on champagne skin

And close fitting ribcages. I snapped from my remembrances

And naïve theorizing as the motorway lights blinded me

And I grasped my knees in fear thinking

‘Oh god’ but father began to harmonize as I considered

The majesty and mechanics of Nick Drakes right hand

Whispering William Blake innocence in the haze of Jane in autumn.

No need for obsolete baroque impersonations

The fashions of a company bleed into the rebellion

Streaming through the veins of psychedelic teens

Who wear bellbottom jeans to compensate for lack of personality

Could I borrow something as simple as a cigarette?

A line of code or a coda in the delicate prayer of jazz?

Or can I weave words into days, hours into ribbons,

Dresses into snow. Sudden stops. Can’t see

The traffic cones five feet in front of me

Sudden burst, could cold thought

Be any cheaper in city brains?

False nihilism, dust on wooden floors

A disease tended to with ennui

And nobody stops to care.

The Cat

Thin stray cat stops and stares at me

In the haze of early morning;

Car wash shower mist over the fence

And autumn pine smell in the air.

Cold eyes green and bright

Motionless limbs and twitching ears,

No lights in windows yet,

Cars have not left their driveways.

I am stood still

Been a while since I’ve seen a cat,

But I’m running late.

I take a step

Gravel dishevelled

A rock turned

A molecule or two slides to the side,

The cat lightly runs away

Into the driveway

And disappears.

Churches

I took tea in the drawing room with Countess Butterfink

And her incessant ramblings really made me think,

“Do you know why churches come to a point…” she said,

I suggested that it could point the way for the newly dead,

She laughed and said “no, I beg your pardon,

Steeples represent the thorns in Gods precious garden.”

I knew then she was insane. I nodded and sipped my tea

And replied “well, my dear, it seems to me

That the world is then surely full of pricks.”

Assassin in Training

Go for the throat and tear it out,

Do it quick or else they’ll shout.

Then stab the heart and twist and turn

Watch them plead, watch them squirm.

Watch the light drain from their eyes

Listen to their muffled cries,

Their blood flows free and crimson and cold,

Just not on the carpet, you’ve been told.

 

“Yes Grandma” I said.

From the Bar to the Bus Stop

Let us be merry my photogenic heart;

We’ll wander the sodden streets of Manchester

Like a starving rat.

We’ll stop at the train station at midnight

To watch the first train pull in

With a river of refugees from the fringes of the town.

Wastelands hold no joy on a Friday night.

Cut, Paste, references, images,

A split second of a dancing girl,

A snapshot of a painter colouring the sky,

A Gypsy playing the accordion,

Cut, Paste. A scent remembered, the violent exchange,

The moment one flash of love dies and reignites

Like a wishful child.

All this in an hour walk,

From the bar to the bus stop.

Nostalgia

I’m a sucker for nostalgia

It makes me cry in defiance

Of my age; I don’t need to be

How others feel they should be,

Instead I can lie to the world

With eyes uncaring and tired.

Childhood… man –

It was good while it lasted

And I’ll be damned if I don’t

Make it last forever.